


There's History Between Them

by teyla



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Closeted Character, Denial, Internalized Homophobia, Loyalty, M/M, Repression, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 19:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12327045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla/pseuds/teyla
Summary: Malcolm and Jamie have an unspoken thing, but Jamie’s done leaving it unspoken.





	There's History Between Them

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt I got over on Tumblr: "I've always had a soft spot for that point-of-no-return moment when one of them eventually decides to go 'fuck it' and makes the first move."
> 
> It's not quite exactly that, but I'm hoping it still hits the spot. Beta'd by neery and daphnie1--thanks guys!
> 
> This is set at some point during the second series or after, but before the specials. My deepest apologies to Cardiff. I actually love that town!

Malcolm and Jamie have an unspoken thing.

Jamie doesn’t know when it started. Feels like it was there from the beginning, back when Malcolm still had dark hair and way fewer wrinkles.

They don’t talk about it (obviously), but Jamie knows that Malcolm knows and Malcolm knows that Jamie knows. There’s static in the air when they’re in the same room, a rain of sparks when their eyes meet. There’s been fantasies that Jamie’s had right there in Malcolm’s office, watching Malcolm do the job and imagining what it’d be like to bend him over the desk, have him stay on the phone while Jamie fucks all coherency out of him.

Malcolm knows about those, too, Jamie’s sure. The looks he sometimes gives him, he’s had his share of retaliation fantasies.

It all hinges on that one night, fucking years ago. They’d stayed till last rounds, and on the way home, Jamie’d felt bold enough to corner Malcolm against a brick wall. In that narrow alley, darkness had covered their sins as Jamie pressed their mouths together, as Malcolm slid his palms over Jamie’s arse and squeezed.

It’s when Jamie realised how big this is, how exhilarating. How fucking dangerous.

Malcolm realised it, too; did the smart thing (as he’s wont to) and broke it off. It’s been fucking years, but most times Jamie’s alone with his right hand, that’s still the first place his mind goes.

That ought to have told him something, but you get busy, right? You get busy, and you live from election to election, and before you know it, you’ve both got grey hair and crow’s feet and carpal tunnel from all the lonely wanking you’ve been doing while the leading star of your wet dreams is a literal arm’s length away.

All things considered, perhaps Jamie should be fucking grateful for what happened. For the way it’s made him realise how much time has passed unnoticed. That’s a thought. Ask him again when he’s not perched on the world’s most uncomfortable plastic chair in the world’s most depressing hospital hallway. Ask him again when he’s not still fucking shaking from the adrenaline crash, when he’s spoken to Malc and made sure everything’s back the way it’s meant to be.

The doc says it’s going to be, but Jamie’s not going to take him by his word. Seeing is better than believing. Last thing he saw of Malcolm was blue lips, puffy eyes, gaspy wheezing, and unconsciousness. Anaphylactic shock, some fucking allergic reaction to something or other. It makes Jamie mad twice over that this was done by something he can’t even set on fire in revenge.

It’s another half hour before they tell him the room they put Malcolm in. It’s in the back of A&E, one of the overnight beds they keep for patients too sick to go home right away and too healthy to be properly admitted. Malcolm’s asleep when Jamie enters, his breathing slow and reassuringly even. His colour’s back to normal, just a bit of red around the eyes. Those are still puffy, but nowhere near as bad as they were. There’s an IV, a set of oxygen nose plugs, and one of those things they clip on your forefinger to measure if you’re getting enough air.

All told, he looks better, but Jamie's not sure it makes a difference. As far as he’s concerned, Malcolm’s a fact of life: off limits, fucking unassailable. Except today he wasn’t. Things don’t just go back to normal from that.

He sits down in a chair, crosses his arms, and waits for Malcolm to wake up.

\------

Malcolm doesn't read him the riot act for sticking around. He's taciturn when he wakes up, uncharacteristically patient with A&E staff as they take forever to check him out, and allows himself to be accompanied home. It's only when Jamie makes as if to follow him inside the house that he narrows his eyes, stops him on the stoop, and tells him to go home.

"If I feel like I need babysitting, I'll give you a call."

It's strangely genuine, like there's an actual chance that Malcolm might want company later. Jamie goes home. He keeps his phone nearby, but it doesn't ring.

\------

There's a policy launch in Transport the next day, and Malc's in the office. After that, quicker than you know, it's back to business as usual. Malcolm starts avoiding all things soy (as far as food allergies go, it could've been worse—who voluntarily consumes soy, anyway?), and Jamie resorts to unsavoury means to secure an EpiPen, which he stores in his desk. He's not going to be caught unawares a second time.

Time's slip-sliding again. Despite all his musings in A&E, the unspoken thing remains unspoken for another week, another month. Occasionally, Jamie pulls up his calendar, flips back to the day of the attack, counts the weeks that have passed since then. _What are you waiting for?_

The same thing he's always been waiting for, of course. He's not going to be the one to call the risk manageable, to decide that the payoff's worth it. It's going to have to be Malcolm.

But for Malcolm, it seems like nothing's changed.

\------

Cardiff's holding local elections. It's a sad little joke of a town, ruling over the part of the United Kingdom that didn't even make it onto the flag. If sheep had the right to vote, Malcolm quips as they board the train.

It's still a capital, though, and as always, the Party's got their eyes on General Elections. Make a second appearance in Barry, try to sway the Vale. There are more important constituencies, but the Vale's a matter of honour.

The trip is long and boring. For the second half of it, Jamie finds excuses to ring folks up and shout at them while pacing up and down between the seats. Malcolm's in the next car doing the same, while their charges (one flustered MP and two frightened staffers) are huddled over scattered papers.

There's something about ministers and their staff that gives them a perpetual air of unprepared Year 11s showing up for their math GCSE. Ideal candidates to inspire trust and confidence in the voting masses, for sure.

They do their job as well as can be expected. The MP’s speech toes all the lines, the staffers don't do or say anything majorly catastrophic, and the free pastries aren't half bad (unlike the coffee, but Jamie's learned to expect nothing less).

He has no idea why he's here. More importantly, he has no idea why _Malcolm_ 's here. Cardiff and the Vale, they’re fucking small fry. This event isn’t even part of a proper campaign. It’s like they’ve marched up their finest battalion to capture a patch of weeds and a sheep farm.

Perhaps there's more to this than Jamie knows, but that doesn't alleviate his frustration. He's never been good at hurry up and wait.

Their hotel is nice, at least. It’s down in Cardiff Bay, tucked up against the waterfront right on the fringe of a leisure area from the mid-nineties gentrification frenzy. Jamie’s room overlooks Roald Dahl Plass and the Millennium Centre, and that’s not bad, but Malcolm’s room has a balcony facing the bay. That’s way better.

Jamie raids the minibar, finds a packet of prawn cocktail crisps that he takes out onto said balcony. The posh chairs are as comfy as they look, and he puts his feet up on the railing, watches the lights from the pubs and restaurants along the waterfront reflect in the bay. Malcolm’s on his laptop, taking notes or something, but he joins him before long, a bag of ready salted in hand. Sometimes Malcolm’s a real boring fuck.

“How’d you get them to approve this hotel?” Jamie sharpens the side crease of his almost-empty crisps bag to create a spout. “Don’t the Welsh have a Travelodge?”

“Sam found it. Last minute discount or something, I didn’t fucking ask. Nice change for once, though, right?”

“I’d say.” He tips his head back, pours the last few crisp crumbs into his mouth. “Makes a bloke feel like he’s on holiday, what with the posh hotel and having fuck all to do all day.”

“You feeling underappreciated?”

“I’m feeling fucking _wasted_ ,” Jamie says, crumples up the crisp packet and chucks it over the railing. “Not in the good way, mind you. I could be back in London working on the press strategy for the council estate thing. And so could you.”

Malcolm’s frowning, and Jamie doesn’t know why until he waves a hand at where the crisp packet fluttered off into the night. “Why’d you fucking go and do that? Some seagull’s gonna choke to death now ‘cos you couldn’t be arsed to clean up your rubbish.”

Jamie looks from Malcolm to the railing. “Oh, I’m fucking sorry. You want me to dive after it?”

“I want you to not be such an inconsiderate fuck in the first place. You grew up around Greenpeace ‘n all of that, you’ve got no fucking excuse. It’s folk like you who’re turning all our renewable energy advances into a waste of time ‘cos they can’t be fucking bothered to make an effort.”

“All right.” Jamie shifts in his chair, slouches harder. “Mr Fucking Environment, I promise to do better. What’s your problem all of a sudden?”

“You are. Sometimes it’s like you’re fucking deliberate about being a dense fucking cunt.”

“About the environment?” Jamie’s entirely unsure if this still counts as good-natured scolding.

“About everything.” A storm cloud’s pulled up over Malcolm’s head, brow drawn down deep over his eyes. He crumples his own crisp packet into a ball. “Probably best if you fuck off. It’s late, we’ve got to be out of here early tomorrow.”

Jamie squints at Malcolm, takes a moment to see if he can’t figure out what the real problem is. But it’s Malcolm, so he gets nothing. Puts his feet down and shrugs. “All right.” He steps into the hotel room, grabs his bag that he dumped next to the bathroom door earlier. “I’ll meet you in the lobby tomorrow morn—”

That’s how far he gets before he’s grabbed, spun around, and shoved back against the wall. He didn’t even hear Malcolm enter; the carpet must’ve swallowed his footsteps as he came up behind Jamie. Now he’s crowding in, hands pinning Jamie’s arms as he presses their lips together in a messy, violent kiss.

It fucking hurts, soft flesh grinding on bone as Jamie’s lip gets trapped between Malcolm’s teeth and his own. He grabs Malcolm’s hips, pushes back and follows, takes control as he manages to shove his tongue into Malcolm’s mouth.

Things go from uncomfortable to piping hot within a second. He navigates them back towards the bed, one leg trying to slide between Malcolm’s thighs. Malcolm’s fingers dig into his arms, bruisingly firm. He’s sucking on Jamie’s tongue, fusing them together more tightly.

They topple onto the mattress in a mess of ties and limbs. Their kiss breaks as Jamie tries to avoid falling elbow-first onto Malcolm’s chest. He lands next to him instead, awkwardly perched on his side. Malcolm uses the opportunity to get on top, shoves him back and straddles his hips.

“ _Fuck_ , Malc!” A bright white spark ignites in Jamie’s groin, and he can’t help but arch up. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Shut up.” Malcolm’s voice is raspy, breathless as he stares down, eyes more intense than ever. Jamie moves to put his hands on Malcolm’s hips, but Malcolm grabs his wrists, pins them above his head.

Immobilized by twelve stone of wiry Scotsman, Jamie feels a tremor run through him. His eyes slip shut, and his cock grows hard mere inches from where Malcolm’s arse is perched on his hips. “ _Fuck_. Malcolm—”

“Tell me to stop.” Malc sounds fucking wrecked, so Jamie opens his eyes. “You want me to stop, you tell me to fucking stop.”

“I’m gonna do no such fucking thing.” His mouth is dry. This is _it_. This is Malcolm Tucker’s breaking point. “You do whatever you want, Malc, whatever you fucking want, I’ve been waiting for this for _years_ —”

“You dense fucking cunt.” Malc lets go of one of his wrists, starts yanking on Jamie’s tie. Jamie’s not at all sure he’s allowed to move his hand, but he does anyway, if only to help. Before long, they’ve got the tie off and the shirt undone most of the way.

Malcolm pushes it open, exposes Jamie’s chest and runs his fingers into the frizz sitting atop the sternum. His hand curls to a fist, and Jamie squirms at the tug of fine hairs trapped between Malcolm’s knuckles. “Don’t—”

“Shut up.” Malcolm’s grip on Jamie’s wrist tightens, but he uncurls his other hand, trails his fingers over to one nipple. Jamie wets his lips as Malcolm’s fingernail flicks against the nub of skin, shudders as Malcolm rubs his finger around it.

“You like that?”

Like he’s fucking collecting data. Jamie nods, tries to speak, and has to take a breath before he gets his voice to unstick. “Yeah, Malc, I—”

He doesn’t get any further. Malcolm ducks down, nudges Jamie’s chin up, cups his mouth against the underside of Jamie’s jaw and the sensitive skin spanning the big vessels in Jamie’s neck. He licks and teases the stubble there, makes Jamie shudder as heat gathers in his groin, makes his cock strain where it’s trapped awkwardly in his pants. “Fuck—”

Malcolm bites down, and Jamie bucks up. “ _Jesus_!”

His right hand is trapped, but with his left he gropes for Malcolm, gets it half in his hair and half in his face and pushes him back. “ _Stop_ that, you moron, you’ll leave a fucking mark!”

All he wanted was prevent Malcolm from leaving a love bite Jamie’ll have to present to the collective voting masses of the Vale tomorrow, but Malcolm pulls back as if slapped. He lets go of Jamie’s wrist, sits up and stares down, chest heaving. Then he scrambles off, pulls away to perch against the headrest, pulls his knees up to his chest.

He’s avoiding looking over, his knuckles turning white where he’s clutching his knees.

Well, fuck.

“Malc.” Jamie sits up, cards his fingers through his hair as he gathers himself, then sits cross-legged across from Malcolm. “What the fuck’s going on?”

There’s no reply, just the sinews in the back of Malcolm’s hands working as he tightens his grip.

Jamie’s shirt is still gaping open, so he buttons it up, shrugs out of his jacket. The side of his neck where Malcolm’s bit him stings a little. “Malc, you gotta—”

“This was a mistake,” Malcolm interrupts, talking to his knees. “You know that, I know that. So let’s—” He swallows, swears under his breath. “Let’s forget about it.”

Jamie shakes his head, undoes his shirt cuffs. “No.” That makes Malcolm look up, finally, shoot Jamie a glare that Jamie meets, unflinching. “I’m fucking done with this, Malc. This fucking—” He waves his hand. “It’s like a fucking dance, right, like a fucking knife fight. I’m done with it. Either we deal with this, here, now, or—”

He stalls out. Malcolm stares at him. “Or what?”

He can’t even say he doesn’t know. He knows exactly, knew ever since the hospital. Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

He swallows, looks down at his hands. “I suppose I’ll start looking for a job back home.”

“Back _where_?”

It’s like he said he’d start looking for a job on fucking Pluto. “ _Home_ , Malc. Glasgow. Or—somewhere else. Belfast. They’ve got great beer up there.”

Malcolm stares at him like he’s speaking gibberish, and something in Jamie’s chest starts twisting and writhing. It hurts.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” He clenches his teeth, feels the pain migrate up into his face, settle behind his eyes. Fucking great. “It’s been _years_ , Malc. I get why— I get _why_. Don’t think I don’t get it. But I don’t wanna be friends, Malc. I’ve got enough fucking friends, and you—I don’t think you even know how to be someone’s fucking friend. All your friends are political networking opportunities.”

“That’s not true.” Malcolm’s quiet, handling each word like it’s made of fucking porcelain, and even though nothing’s showing on his face, Jamie knows Malcolm’s got his own twisting, writhing thing inside of him.

The knowledge doesn’t make him feel any better. He shakes his head. “It is, Malc. And it’s fine. It’s—you, that’s you, and that’s fine. But I’m not—” He doesn’t know how to finish, how to get anything past his clenching throat. “There’s nothing _after_ this. You’re never gonna retire. You’ll die in the fucking trenches, of—of a stroke, or—a fucking soy milk latte that they’ll serve you in some BBC green room by mistake, and when that happens, all I’ll have to show is a—a fucking grope in the dark, and this.” He waves a hand at his tieless shirt, at the barely rumpled covers. “This isn’t _enough_ , Malc.”

Malcolm’s staring at him, motionless, and Jamie can’t meet his eyes anymore. He drops his head, rubs his hands over his face and then leaves them there, safe and dark and hiding the fact that he’s fucking crying. He hates that he is, he doesn’t want Malcolm to think that he can’t deal or doesn’t understand. He can, and he does. It just fucking hurts.

The mattress moves as Malcolm gets up. Jamie waits for the rustle of his coat, for the click of the door. Clear the room, give Jamie a chance to get out. All he needs is some time to pull himself together, to make a plan for what’s next: the Vale, then back to London. Wrap up all loose ends. Resign. Find a job up north—any job, as long as it’s north of Blackpool.

It’ll be nice to have real winters again. It’ll be nice not to spend half his salary on living expenses, it’ll be nice to maybe get to write for a paper again. It’ll be nice—

The mattress dips. A hand lands on his shoulder, gives him half a heart attack. His throat seizes, and he drops his hands to see a box of Kleenex being shoved in his face. Malcolm’s face is somewhere on the edge of his vision, brow pulled down in concern. He grabs a tissue, takes it as another good excuse to hide his face as he blows his nose.

“S’ry.” The tissue’s soaked within seconds, so he grabs another one. “Didn’t mean to make this into a huge fucking—”

“Shut up.”

Malcolm’s tone of voice has got a range, from quiet over charming to shouting and screaming, but there’s always a threatening edge. Malcolm doesn’t open his mouth unless he wants something, and he’ll usually let you know that he intends to get what he wants, or else.

This, though, this is just quiet. A little sad. It makes Jamie turn his head, meet Malcolm’s eyes after all.

There’s a sheen in them he’s never seen before, either.

“I’m the one who should be saying sorry.” That’s also new. Malcolm’s not big on apologies, especially not if they bring him no advantage. “I didn’t—”

He stalls out, and there’s the edge creeping back into his demeanour, an anxious restlessness that seems to be as much a part of Malcolm as his giant fucking hawk nose. His hand on Jamie’s shoulder flexes, and Jamie can tell he’s about to get up and start pacing, so he clasps his own hand over it, holds him in place.

_You had your chance to leave, you fuck. You don’t get to run now._

“Fuck.” Malcolm chews on his lip. “I’m not planning on fucking dying, Jamie. All right? It’s—what happened, it fucking _terrified_ me. It’s not like it didn’t. But it’s not—it doesn’t mean I’ll be dropping dead in the next couple of years.”

“What if you do?” Now Jamie lets go, but only to turn around, face Malcolm properly. “Let it be ten years, fucking fifteen. More. I don’t care. I care that—” He wets his lips, struggles to find the best way to say this. “I care that I felt like I had no right to be there. You know?”

Malcolm looks at him, shakes his head in confusion. Jamie swears under his breath. “In the _hospital_. I had no right to be there, I had no right to—to be any more worried than Sam, or Glenn, or Julius fucking Nicholson. I’m no more than a member of your staff, and that’s not—I’m sorry, Malc, but it’s not fucking _enough_.”

Malcolm’s expression closes down. “You’ve fucking lost it.” He clenches his fist, but he’s still sitting. He’s not left yet. “Even if—even _if_. We wouldn’t be _out_. We couldn’t fucking be, Jamie, that’s _insane_.”

“What?” Jamie recaps what’s been said. It takes him a moment, but he gets it. “For fuck’s _sake_ , Malc.” Anger curls in his chest, impatience at this fucking obstinate fuck of a man. He pushes off the bed, paces a few steps. Now he’s the one who can’t sit still. “That’s not at all the fucking _point_.”

“Then what is?” Malcolm’s annoyed, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Fucking _make_ your point, then, and make it clear. I’m no fucking mind reader.”

“You!” He throws up his hands, points them both at the man across. “ _You’re_ the fucking point. Jesus Christ, Malc, do you think I care what Nicholson thinks?”

“It’d be a fucking first.”

“Exactly.” He exhales, clenches his fists. “ _You_ didn’t give me the right. To be there, to fucking care. You never fucking do, it’s all—it’s bullshit, it’s fucking bullshit, and I’m _done_ with it.” There’s tears pushing against his eyes again, but this time they’re angry, fucking furious. “We’ve been playing this game for years, fucking pretending that all we are is colleagues, when I _know_ that it’s more. You jumped _me_ , remember? You’re the one who started this, tonight. Fucking stick with it for once!”

Malcolm looks like he’s frozen, like he’s waiting for Jamie to turn his back so he can disappear, or possibly throw a knife and remove all witnesses. Jamie takes a step closer. “You don’t have the fucking balls to face this, you’re going to have to grow them. I am not leaving until I’ve got an answer one way or another, and _don’t_ fucking think it’ll all go back to how it was. You don’t have the guts to make a decision, I’ll fucking make it for you. I’m done fucking waiting around, I’m not your—”

Malcolm’s not the youngest anymore, but he’s fucking spry, moves like a cat if he wants to. He’s up before Jamie knows, grabs him and spins them around, shoves him back onto the bed. “You’re not my fucking what?” He gets back on top, pins Jamie’s wrists, but it’s not sexy this time around. He’s spitting mad, bared teeth and a hateful glint in his eyes. “You’re my fucking anything I want you to be. You’ve been following along ever since I met you. Move to London? Sure. Get into politics? Gee, Malc, if you say so. Name one thing you did for yourself, and I’ll show you a lie you’re telling yourself.”

Jamie’s grown calm under Malcolm’s grip, feels his heart beat slow and steady in his chest. Turns out tonight’s his breaking point, too. “I’ve given you the loyalty you demanded, Malcolm.” He wets his lips. His mouth is dry. “It’s the only way to exist around you, in case you haven’t realised. Your way or the fucking highway, but I’m telling you, I’m taking the fucking highway unless something changes. Tonight.”

Malcolm’s throat works. “I never fucking asked for—”

“ _Enough_.” He’s the one pinned to the mattress, but it doesn’t feel like it. “I want a fucking answer. Right now.”

Malcolm’s eyes flicker, a glint of panic and something else, something rawer. There’s so much _fear_ in this man. It’s heartbreaking, in more ways than one. Jamie’s throat closes up again. He fully expects Malcolm to back off, move away and clear the way to the door.

It’s an answer, at least. He supposes he’ll try to take consolation in that when he moves back to Glasgow.

Malcolm’s weight shifts, and Jamie closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to watch. Malcolm leans on his wrists, holds him in place till the last second, like the vindictive fucking bastard that he is. Jamie’s chest seizes. Perhaps going back to the way things were wouldn’t be so bad. He knows that’s not true, but right now, this feels worse.

Dry lips press against his. There’s a tongue teasing his mouth open, finding its way inside. It’s gentle. Apologetic, almost. Malcolm lets go of his wrists, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, his weight on top of Jamie gets heavier as he stretches out, presses his body flush against Jamie’s.

Jamie makes a noise in his throat, something that would’ve been a sigh if he weren’t locked in this kiss. His arms come up, wrap around Malcolm’s chest until Malcolm has no choice but to stay exactly where he is.

Skinny fucking twit; he weighs next to nothing. Jamie rucks Malcolm’s suit jacket up, fumbles his shirt out of his trousers until he can slip his hands underneath. Malcolm hums into the kiss, and Jamie curls his tongue, draws Malcolm in.

It’s not their first kiss, but it feels like it is. It’s the first time it’s not a battle, the first time it’s not a struggle to get as much out of it as possible before the inevitable interruption. Malcolm’s lips are thin and dry, a little chapped, but they soften quickly enough. There’s no teeth at all, not until Jamie carefully uses his own to brush a soft graze against Malcolm’s lower lip.

Malcolm shudders, tilts his hips down. Jamie can feel Malcolm’s cock through his trousers, a hard presence digging into the flesh of Jamie’s thigh. He smiles, hums into the kiss as he pushes back against it, nips again with his teeth, gentle but noticeable.

He’s rewarded by a soft groan and another tremor. Malcolm’s breathing is ragged, sweat breaking out on his back where Jamie’s hands are splayed against his skin.

“Careful,” Malcolm says, breathless between two intakes of air. “Don’t—no marks.”

“’course not.” Jamie nudges his nose against Malcolm’s cheek to make him turn his head, puts his mouth against the side of Malcolm’s neck, the sensitive skin right underneath his ear. He licks, nuzzles, nips, but never bites. Leaves no fucking marks.

Before long, Malcolm’s shaking, hips pushing rhythmically against Jamie’s thigh, fingers clutching Jamie’s shoulders. Jamie’s skin prickles, the brush of the fabrics between them fucking maddening.

“Malc.” Quiet, no more than a breath of air. He shifts his hips, aligns his own pulsing cock more evenly with Malcolm’s thigh. “Come on, Malc, bear down—”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. Malcolm shifts his weight, provides a counter for Jamie rocking his hips up. The pressure lights a spark, sends it all the way up his spine into his brain and synapses, making them misfire the best fucking way possible.

“Fuck.” His own breathing’s anything but regular. He tilts his head back, arches up. “Fuck, Malc, fucking—”

Malcolm’s lips against his throat, Malcolm’s _teeth_ against his throat. The thrill of it blurs Jamie’s thoughts. What if he _did_ leave a mark, what if the entire Vale _did_ see Malcolm’s brand on him?

He moans, the sound resonating deep in his chest as he jerks his hips up, as his fingers dig into Malcolm’s back. “Fuck, Malc, _fuck_ —”

Coherency’s fucking overrated, and it leaves him completely as Malcolm’s teeth close on his earlobe. It’s a smarting pain, it’s exactly what he needs. Warm stickiness fills his pants; his fucking trousers, too. He’s lucky he packed an extra suit—though right now, he couldn’t care less. He would wear this come-stained suit to Buckingham Palace. Malcolm’s the reason for that stain. He’s got no shame about wearing it.

His head clears and reality returns, Malcolm on top of him caressing his throat, his own breathing ragged, chest heaving as he draws in air. One nudge of his thigh tells him Malcolm’s still hard as a rock. It sends a tingle of excitement down his sensation-flooded nerves.

“Get—” He moves his hands to Malcolm’s waist, pushes up. “Come on,” and he has to take a breath; air’s still kind of short. “Up and over.”

“What—”

Malcolm’s confused, reluctant as Jamie manhandles him to sit against the headrest. Jamie shakes his head, nudges him along. “Just let me do this.”

He makes short work of Malcolm’s shirt, gets rid of the tie that’s somehow still clinging to Malcolm’s neck. He pushes aside the shirt and the jacket, exposes a chest with a few grey hairs curling in the middle, a flat stomach wrinkling only because Malcolm’s propped up against the headrest.

He’s never seen so fucking much of Malcolm’s bare skin at once. _Jesus_.

“Jamie, what—”

“Shush.” He puts his fingers over Malcolm’s mouth, meets his eyes. “Just let me fucking do this, all right?”

It’s a bit awkward until he clambers in between Malcolm’s legs. From this position, he can prop himself up against the pillows and kiss Malcolm, kiss his chest, nuzzle along his pointy fucking collarbones and the dip at the base of his throat as he fumbles open Malcolm’s trousers with his free hand.

Malcolm gets what he’s going for soon enough, lets out a string of muttered curses when he does. “Jesus, Jamie,” he breathes, jumps as Jamie puts his mouth over his nipple. “Jesus _fuck_ —”

Once out, Malcolm’s cock is hard and flushed and leaking all over the fucking place. Jamie’s cock tingles in response, nestled soft and sated in his still-damp pants. “You fucking prick,” he says, grinning as he pulls his hand down in an experimental stroke, watches Malcolm’s eyelids flutter. “I’m gonna have to give this suit to the dry cleaner’s now. Normal wash won’t do.”

“Don’t—” Malcolm’s voice catches as Jamie pulls his hand back up, tightens his grip around the head. He grips Jamie’s forearms, sucks in a breath. “ _Fuck_! Jesus. Don’t put your suits in the wash at all, Jamie, no wonder they always look like— _oh_!”

Jamie does it again, flicks his thumb over the slit, spreads beads of pre-come on flushed, red skin. Malcolm’s eyes glaze over, Jamie pumps his hand a couple of times, tiny strokes as he loosens his grip only to tighten it on the way up. Two, three, another flick of the thumb, and Malcolm’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes slip closed, and his face relaxes in a way Jamie’s never seen before. Warm come spills over his hand, slickens his grip as he keeps working Malcolm’s cock till the last of the tension has bled out of Malcolm’s body, that sweet spot just before any touch grows unbearable.

“That’s it,” he says, quiet, wipes his hand on the sheets and gathers Malcolm into his arms.

He’s pliant like he’s never been, puts his arms around Jamie and rests his head on Jamie’s shoulder.

They stay like that for a good long time.

\------

Jamie’s legs tingle when they finally move, and the crotch of his pants has turned into a sticky, cold, uncomfortable mess. Things are different now, but neither of them knows what that means exactly, so they use the bathroom in turns. Malcolm changes into his pyjamas, while Jamie chooses one of the hotel’s fuzzy white robes.

Once back on the bed, the silence returns, suddenly awkward.

 _What if this is it?_ The thought comes to Jamie like a bucket of cold water over the head. _What if this was just a goodbye fuck?_

“Jesus.” Malcolm must’ve seen something in his face, and gestures. “Come on. Come over here.”

Jamie moves up to sit next to him. Malcolm’s arm comes around his shoulders, and it’s like it pushes off a weight. He leans against Malcolm’s side, laughs.

“So that’s a yes, right?”

“What the fuck else would it be?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “It’s you. I never fucking know.”

“ _Yes_.” It’s said with exaggerated emphasis. “It’s a fucking yes. I don’t—” Malcolm’s voice catches, and Jamie waits until he continues, more quiet. “I don’t want you to fucking leave.”

“Is that all?” Dread curls in Jamie’s chest, the idea that he forced Malcolm to do something out of fear rather than interest.

Malcolm doesn’t answer for the longest time, and dread turns into fucking certainty, a heavy weight in Jamie’s stomach. “Malc, I didn’t— _fuck_ , I didn’t want to—”

“Jesus, Jamie. Shut up.” Malcolm’s arm tightens around him, and Jamie doesn’t pull away, even though he probably should.

He waits, stomach roiling.

“You were right,” Malcolm says eventually. “I didn’t want to make a decision on this, because I fucking knew it’d be this, and this is fucking terrifying. And it was easy not to, because I knew you’d stick around anyway.” He sighs, drags his free hand over his face. “Jesus, Jamie. I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” He shifts, stretches and tugs on Malcolm’s shirt until he can press a kiss to Malcolm’s lips. “Don’t do that, all right? If I was right, then you were right, too.”

“’bout what?”

“About me taking the easy way out. Leaving all the hard choices up to you. I could’ve done this sooner, right? Didn’t need you almost fucking dying first for me to get my shit together.”

Malcolm’s watching him with a rare, thoughtful expression. He ducks down for another kiss before he settles back against the headrest. “It’s a fucking mess. All of this. I have no idea how to fucking do this.”

“Me either.” He hadn’t thought about that at all, about what would happen _after_ he finally got Malcolm to agree to this. “Suppose we start with no biting?”

Malcolm snorts, picks up a glass of water from the nightstand. “No biting, no fucking touching in public.”

“None at all?” Jamie frowns. “Might be weird. Lady doth protest too much.”

“What?”

“You know.” Jamie plucks the glass from Malcolm’s fingers, takes a drink. “We touch. Used to touch. Might be weird if we suddenly stop.”

“I don’t touch you.”

“Do.”

“Do not.”

“Do.” Jamie hands the glass back, earns a dry nod of thanks. “Shoved me against that weird fucking grid thing in your office once.”

“That’s not touching. That’s fighting.” Malcolm rolls his eyes. “And it’s not fucking weird, it’s a task wall. You could do with one.”

“More work than use, that thing.”

Silence settles again, but it’s more comfortable than before. United in helplessness, or something. Jamie closes his eyes for a moment, feels the warmth of Malcolm’s body nearby. It’s nothing he ever expected to happen, if he’s honest with himself. The thought makes him smile.

“You know what, Malc, fuck ‘em. You’re Britain’s leading spin doctor, I’m your fucking right hand man. Tell a story with enough conviction, they’ll buy it.”

“I fucking hope so.”

“They will.” He glances up. “And if not, a balaclava and gaffer tape will go a long way. I’m sure I could get a severed horse head, too. Royal Ascot’s coming up, after all.”

Malcolm snorts. “No fucking subtlety.” He wraps his fingers around Jamie’s, squeezes them once. “You’re right, though. Fuck ‘em. I’ve managed to protect MPs from worse fucking scandals.”

“Right? Bit of sodomy’s never ruined anyone’s career.”

Malcolm’s expression goes from horror to disbelief, and Jamie laughs. “I’m joking, Malc. Stop fretting about it, yeah? We’ll have to watch what we say, but at the rate we’ve been going, I think we’ve both got plenty of fucking practice doing that.”

Malcolm looks a bit guilty at that, wets his lips. “You planning to sleep in the other room?”

“You want me to?”

“Not really.”

“All right.” Jamie smiles. “Staying here, then.”

Malcolm glances at the door. “We should—”

“—mess up the sheets in the other bed, spill some water around in the bathroom. I’ll take care of it in the morning.”

Malcolm nods, shifts down until he’s lying on his side. Jamie pulls the sheet up and presses up against him, gets his nose stuck in wiry, grey-grizzled hair. It tickles, and he smiles.

“Been wanting to do this for a fucking lifetime.”

It’s quiet, but not too quiet for Malcolm to hear. There’s no answer for the longest time; then:

“Me, too, Jamie. Fuck. Me, too.”


End file.
